


Banana Pancakes

by prospitianknightmares



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Cute, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Mush, Humor, I really don't know what I'm doing here, Idiots in Love, Love/Hate, M/M, Slow Burn, enjoy bitches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2019-02-12 03:19:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12950175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prospitianknightmares/pseuds/prospitianknightmares
Summary: a discontinied grimmons fic about post-s15 shenanigans.





	Banana Pancakes

The cooldown period after having dealt with Temple was,  
no doubt, an awkward stretch of time. Once they'd settled on what constitutes Malarkey as a form of govornment and built a new base there was nothing left to do but kill time. Everyone adjusted differently.  
Sarge had somehow finally found an outlet for his sourceless, pent-up anger by electing to be regularly given a thorough ass-kicking from Carolina. The new base had been thoroughly Donut-proofed and they'd figured out how to keep Kaikaina and Tucker as far away from each other as possible. Things were getting truly, genuinely /quiet/.

The Bullshit Board was Grif's idea. It was, in his words, like a swear jar, but instead of tossing another coin into an empty glass container whenever you tell your dad to fuck off you earn yourself a place on the Wall Of Shame whenever you do something fucking dumb. As expected, it was at first hand-waved as Grif being petty. Donut was the first to request it be taken down- he had the same score as Caboose and knowing you're committing roughly the same number of bogus acts weekly as the guy who alternates between two spellings of his own last name doesn't do much for your self-esteem. He'd been called worse things than "spoilsport" and "negative Nancy", though, so it didn't deter him.

He displayed it in the main entrance. The heart of the building. You couldn't go through to your bedroom without being stared down by a concise summation of your own failiures. Slowly but surely, it grew on them. Sarge was too occupied by his training sessions with Carolina to take notice (who, along with Wash, felt a slight twang of insecurity every time they passed it by), Tucker had reduced the number of dirty jokes he made when in close proximity to Grif, and Donut was... still Donut. They can't all be winners.

He found that people- the people he'd wound up living with, at least- need competition. For the first time ever, he felt powerful, albeit in a weird, meaningless way.

Naturally, Simmons had taken to dissecting the idea of what exactly counts as being Officially Fucking Dumb.  
He looked over the scoreboard again. Caboose and Donut were tied for first place, surprising absolutely no-one, with Grif coming in dead last. Grif did, of course, have the tactical advantage of being the one maintaining the counter in the first place. He wasn't known for giving particularly fair self-assessments.

"Uh, hello? Ground control to major Dick? You're gonna decimate that pen if you don't stop ogling the leaderboard." 

"Oh." He'd been chewing the tip of his pen again. That wasn't a good sign. Why did he have a pen? He wasn't writing anything. He was sitting in the hallway, bickering with Grif. "I just- don't you think it's a little unfair that you're the one deciding whether you're scoring Bullshit Points?"

"What, you think I'm _biased?_ " 

"You have one point, I have 5."

"Yeah, and? Do you want me to name everything you've done this week that's worth a point or something?- because I'd be HAPPY to."

"Name ONE thing."

"WELL," Grif said in the voice of a teacher nearing retirement preparing to give his least favourite student a verbal battering, "There was the couscous incedent on Tuesday-"

"My couscous is fine, Grif."

"Mmhm. And you just COULDN'T help yourself from rubbing your grubby little hands all over my _very private property_ , couldn't you?"

"Below the belt, man. You know I stress-clean."

"The Kitkats, too."

Simmons opened his mouth as if preparing to speak and then closed it again, his lips pursed.

"The Kitkats, Simmons! I was saving was saving them, you know- limited edition, green tea flavored. Only sold in Japan. I had to do some serious digging around the internet to get them delivered to me."

"Please, I was doing you a favor. I checked the wrapper. It expired, like, a year ago."

"I can give you an extra point just for saying that." He hovered his hand over that little ledge where you keep your whiteboard markers, indicating he was being serious.

"Don't you dare. And that's just three. What's the other two for?"

"You got one for forcing me to give myself a point."

"That's the most bullshit reason you've listed so far. You should get a point for that. You should get a point for giving me a point for giving you a point." 

There was a brief pause, for processing purposes.

"...I bet you'll give up two weeks in because it makes your fingers hurt. No, one week. You'll give it up after a week."

"Goddamnit, Simmons." 

If he hadn't put it to a vote- if he hadn't somehow been insistent enough on there being an official protocol for dealing with these matters for a vote to actually be _required_ \- he'd have been able to keep his spot on the board unblemished.  
He didn't get what the big deal was, anyway. He's learning the ukelele, for fuck's sake. Is is THAT out-of-character for him to actually want to get good at something? He can learn stuff. He learned Spanish. He can speak Spanish now. He can-

Grif decided to hold that thought because it was unpleasant and also some up-until-then unexplained repressed memories involving loud, blaring noises coming from Simmon's quarters last night just clicked into place. He jabbed his finger in the air accusingly without a single ounce of self-awareness as to how dumb he sounded.

"-And anyway, you don't get to criticise me for my choices when you're the one learning to play the fucking tuba!"

"I"- Simmons was sweating. He was hitting a little close to home here. "-how did you know?"

"It's a _tuba_ , dude! I can hear that thing from a mile away! Hurts my ears. You're a shit tuba player, by the way."

Cue a gasp which neither Simmons nor Grif knew whether to identify as sarcastic. At that point, the two of them had graduated from sitting on the floor of the hallway bickering to standing up and having a heated debate.

"I'll have you know I played in the school band and my teacher told me I was a /very talented young man/!" He folded his arms and pouted like an angsty tuba-playing teenager. "...I've just gotten a little rusty, is all."

"Du-hu-hude! You can't go around just handing people information like this!" 

" _Shut up._ "

Grif sniggered. "Look"- he spoke in a condescending tone as if he hadn't just spent god knows how long arguing about his own fucking whiteboard stupidity marquee- "I'd love to hang around and conjure up mental images of your pimply 14-year-old self heaving around an oversized brass instrument he can't even play for shit but believe it or not I've got places to be. Adios, dumbass." 

He turned to walk away whilst doing that weird half-salute with the middle and index fingers to hide the fact that he was glancing backwards. Fuck. Simmons was looking actually hurt about this whole tuba thing. 

"Uh- Tucker's the resident music expert, right? He's the one with the band."

"...Yeah?"

"Why don't we... why don't we have like, a, uh..." He trailed off, squinted, made the rolling motion with his hands one does makes when deciding to bail out of a sentance halfway through. "...I can prove it. My skills, I mean. You can prove yourself. To me. To Tucker."

"I don't like what you're suggesting."

"You want me to settle your lovers quarrel?"

The two of them turned in abject terror to face the teal- the aquamarine- the whatever-coloured soldier leaning against the frame of the doorway to the rudimentary recording studio he'd set up with Caboose whilst making the most delightfully punchable facial expression he could muster.

" _Jesus CHRIST, Tucker!_! When did you get here?"

"I've been here forever, dude. For a pair of soldiers you two have, like, zero awareness of your surroundings."

Grif almost shook his fist but decided against it in fear of looking like even more of a collossal tool. "...Shit."

"No, by all means, go on. It's adorable." 

"We're not letting you judge a goddamn talent show between us, if that's what you're asking," said Simmons, the usual twang of mildly irritating authority returning to his voice.

"Why not? You've been having a fuckin' argument about KitKats for the past five minutes. You're clearly bored out of your minds."

"You're being serious?"

"Yeah. It's not like I've got anything better to do either! Things are getting seriously mundane around here. I need some stimulation." 

Silence.

"Bow chicka bow wo-"

"That's a point."

"Shit." Tucker sighed. "Anyway, my point still stands. I was occupied with the band but things kinda cooled down after we decided on a name. Got that shit sorted out."

They both raised their eyebrows at him expectantly.

"...It's called 'Troopers In Violet'. We transferred Carolina to lead violinist. We're going for an instrumental approach- I mean, we like Carolina's singing just fine"- he briefly glanced over his shoulder- "we just wanted to take it in a different direction, y'know?" 

Grif found that sentence to be a little too information-dense for him to process and elected to ignore it. "I mean... think about it, Simmons. Wouldn't you just _love_ to prove your musical superiority to me once and for all?"

"I'm not competing with you. There's no point. A ukelele's just a lame guitar for people who hate country music. Your lose automatically on merit of your choice of instrument."

"Let's make it a bet."

"Aren't we, like, rich now or something?"

"Not with money."

"...I'm listening."

"Tucker chooses you as the champion tuba-player- tubist?- and I hand administrative rights to the Bullshit Board over to you."

Simmons thought for a moment. Those five tally marks under a crude whiteboard marker drawing of his face _were_ causing him a good deal of distress. He stretched out his hand towards Grif.

"Deal."

He gave an understanding nod. Simmons shook his hand (a simple-yet-effective up, down, seperate- he reserved that pattern for when he Means Business) and they strode off in opposite directions, vaguely aware that they'd both just engaged in what may possibly be the dumbest interaction between two humans, ever, of all time. That wasn't stopping them from getting genuinely pissed off, though.

...

"Like an old married couple."

"Shut up, Tucker."


End file.
